Glass Castles
by pfeffi
Summary: Fear is not the way of the Feroxi. — BasilioRobin, Flavia.


**Glass Castles**

…

Fear is not the way of the Feroxi. Basilio knows this, he lives by this code, but it doesn't stop the sheer terror that rises like an ugly serpent in his blood when he sees his wife run after Grima. He knows in that instant exactly what she plans to do and what the consequences of that action will be. He tries to stop her by calling her name; he's a loud man, but he's never felt quieter than in this moment. Grima's roars and the Risens' battle cries drown him out and he, and the entirety of the Ylissean core army, can only watch with stunned horror as Robin takes on herself—the twisted version of herself.

Chrom cries out, Lissa lets loose a scream, but none can will themselves to move and stop her. They all watch, mute, as she delivers the final blow, and her body fades away in a smoke of purple.

Flavia appears as Basilio's side in an instant. Her jaw is clenched, tight with sadness and disbelief and rage. He slumps to his knees.

Fear is not the way of the Feroxi. Basilio knows this, but he has never felt so afraid of the future.

…

Robin comes back to them in full form, nothing changed except that there are clouds in her eyes. She does not recognize any of them, least of all Basilio and Morgan. Grima is but a whisper of a whisper, the faintest of presences in her mind. When the name is mentioned, she flinches, like it triggers something, and there's a brief moment of clarity in her eyes. It fades away as quickly as it comes.

Lissa can't diagnose her amnesia without bursting into tears, so Maribelle does it for her. She announces, gravely, that it is likely Robin's memories will not return for a long time, if ever. Miriel agrees with this conclusion; although she is not a healer, she has dabbled in the sciences of psychology and neurology, and admits that Robin has repressed her memories rather strongly. She's not really _there_, either, Maribelle adds solemnly. They can all see it, too, how Robin sits there silently like all she wants to do is fall into deep slumber. Chrom clenches his fist, steeling himself, and manages a sharp smile, saying that they'll just have to build her memories from scratch. They'd done it once before, hadn't they?

Basilio, ever the life of the party, bears a great smile and says: "The lass'd want us to look on the bright side. Now we have a second chance at hiding our bad points from her!"

This elicits laughs, however weak, from everyone but Flavia. She merely watches him with a level gaze, putting on a smile that doesn't quite meet her eyes.

"We'll take Robin back to Ferox," she says. "We have healers that will keep an eye on her progress—and I'm sure that Lissa will also keep everyone updated."

"I will," Lissa says. Her voice is still a little shaky, but she's brightening. "Lon'qu and I won't be far away from her, I promise." She says this mainly to Chrom, who looks visibly relieved.

"Aye, nothing will happen to the lass," Basilio assures. "What sort of Khan would I be if I couldn't even take care of my own wife? She'll be treated like the champion she is, and I will have the best healers aid her." He grins, broadly. "Soon she'll be back to her old ways: nagging at me every time I pull out the mead."

This time Flavia does laugh with the others. "We'll leave in the morning," she says when she sobers, and takes the silence to be a resounding agreement.

…

They settle Robin into a bed in a room in Basilio's house. Despite being Khan, he's never felt the need for extravagancies. A simple house, many times smaller than the houses of Ylissean nobles, with a shabby roof that needed to be redone and walls that were as sturdy as he was, suited him just fine. When he had first told Robin about his home, he had expected that she would wish for something larger, having been used to staying in the Ylissean Halidom, the palace, with Chrom and Lissa. Instead, she had surprised him, just as she always managed to, and said that she was really looking forward to having a place she could call home, too. The quainter the better, she'd said. (He'd been overtaken with emotion, then, and kissed her soundly until she was a giggling mess.)

He sighs, now. Here she was, seeing the house but not _seeing _it. Living in their home, but not _living_ in it. The healers had specifically recommended that she be put in a separate room; it was still beside his, but having her away from him just put another ocean between them—this one a physical gap, atop the already present mental and emotional ones. Basilio rubs his hand against his forehead and then across his closed eyes, shaking his head to snap himself out of it.

"Khan Basilio?" One of the healers approaches him; he turns to them. "She's settled in comfortably. We expect that she will wish to remain bedridden for a few days before starting to move about slowly. It may take her some time to get used to her surroundings."

"Understood," he replies. Basilio claps a hand against the healer's shoulder. "Thanks, lad."

The healer, barely a man, nods quickly and then scurries away. Basilio glances out the window; the sun is setting. It's been a long day. He exhales slowly, resolving to look in on his wife once, just in case. The healers can say what they will, but for his own peace of mind he needs to see her with his own eyes.

So he creaks open the door to her room, peering in. The curtains have been pulled shut, leaving the room dark. Robin is sleeping in her bed, lying straight as a sword, corpse-like. His stomach twists a little. When she would sleep beside him, she would sleep on her side, sometimes facing him, sometimes with her back to him. Her legs would be drawn up slightly, inclined towards her chest, and one hand would be tucked under her pillow, the other rest idly in front of her. She'd breathe easiest when he put one arm atop her, lacing their fingers together. The best nights would be the ones where she rested her face against his shoulder, slipping her legs between his. The way she sleeps now—it's not her.

Basilio steps back and closes the door, leaving the cruel imitation of his wife behind. He goes to the kitchen, opening the cupboards and searching for his mead bottles. His travels over the years, the adventures he would embark on while he was the reigning Khan, always ended with him acquiring plenty to drink. He takes out the first bottle he sees and pops out the cork, seating himself at the small table for four that has always been, for him, a table for one. One day, he swears, it will be a table for two. With Morgan, three. With a Morgan from their time… Today, he struggles to bring himself to smile at the thought.

He picks up the bottle idly and swirls around the liquid in it. He takes a sip. Sets it back down. The taste is bitter. How fitting. He takes another sip—then pushes the bottle away.

Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow.

…

He leaves a flower at her bedside every morning. They remain untouched by her—the healers, for a while, take pity on the wilting plants and put them into a vase with water. The flowers accumulate until there's no more space in the vase. They will empty it every so often.

One evening he comes home to see all the flowers have wilted and the vase hasn't been emptied. He quietly enters Robin's room and removes the vase, taking it back out and tossing all the flowers. The vase feels heavy, even as he pours out all the water.

Basilio returns the vase to her room. Tomorrow, he will bring flowers again.

(He brings them until winter comes and there are no more flowers to be brought.)

…

Morgan stays with his father for most of autumn, beginning to get restless only towards the end of the season. He gets visits every so often from the various future children. Owain and Brady come the most often, sometimes bringing Inigo and Yarne along with them, who in turn forcibly drag Gerome and Laurent to Ferox, too. And where the boys go, so do the girls—Lucina always comes in a trio with Cynthia and Severa; Kjelle visits with Noire and Nah, the latter of whom always stays the longest. Basilio gathers from the many conversations who is dating or married to whom. He isn't surprised when Morgan admits, _almost_ bashfully, that he and Nah have been seeing each other for a few months now.

Basilio roars with laughter, clapping his son on the back. "'Atta boy! Taking after your father, aren't you?"

Morgan glows with pride. When he tells his father that he wants to properly propose to Nah, Basilio only gives him encouragement and says that he's a pretty slick proposer, himself, and is happy to give his son some advice.

"Don't tell your mother, though," he warns, "otherwise she'll have my head. And probably empty all my mead bottles, too."

"You got it!" Morgan says, too cheerfully for it to be a solemn promise, but it was a promise nonetheless. (Somehow, though, Basilio doubts it will be a promise that he keeps. Morgan's a great boy, but when it comes to keeping secrets from his mother, he's about as trustworthy as a pickpocket.)

When the beginnings of winter start to show in Ferox, Basilio notices that the visits from Morgan's friends come more often than normal. He learns that Owain and Brady have spent at least a week staying with Lissa and Lon'qu at their house. Morgan begins to look guilty every time he glances in Basilio's direction, and even more so when he goes into Robin's room to talk to his mother. More often than not, he does so while she's sleeping. Basilio isn't one to eavesdrop on their conversations, but one day he just happens to walk by while Morgan is talking to Robin, and, well—

"Hey, Mom," Morgan says quietly. The usual cheer in his voice isn't quite there. "I was just wondering, would you mind if I went out with my friends? They were—well, they are—planning on travelling together as a big group one more time before we all start to settle down, some of us for good. I bet Laurent will keep traveling and Inigo'll become a famous dancer and Cynthia will become a hero who rescues people around the world and Severa will travel and take jobs for a bit but then she might go and stay with Lucina or something and—" He pauses, then laughs nervously. "Whoops, going off a bit there! Anyway, Nah and I were considering traveling with Laurent for a while, after this big group trip, and seeing what there is to see in the world before, maybe, um, settling down and everything… we'll wait to get married until you come back, though—oh, did I tell you that I proposed? Fun fact: she said yes!"

Morgan beams, but the smile is brief and after it fades, he sits quietly for a long moment. Then, he says, almost slowly: "I really want to go on this, Mom, but I don't want to leave you. What should I do?"

Robin, sleeping almost comatose, doesn't respond. Morgan sighs, then presses his hand against hers. He kisses her on the cheek and leaves the room, running straight into his father's chest. The look of complete shock mingled with guilt is an expression Basilio hasn't seen on his son before.

"Dad!" He almost shouts, but catches himself to whisper it loudly instead. "Did you—oh, you probably did."

"I did," Basilio agrees. "When were you going to tell me, boy?"

"Um," he squeaks. "At some point? In the near future? Today? Now?"

It takes every bit of Basilio's effort not to laugh at the boy's response. Instead, he manages to calmly say: "Are you going to go, then?"

"I—I was sort of planning on going with them, but I'll definitely come back, and I'll send letters every day just in case Mom comes back so someone can find me and tell me and—"

"Go on, boy," Basilio laughs. "I wasn't going to stop you, only encourage. Your mother and I will be right here when you get back."

Morgan's smile is brighter than the sun.

…

The house is quiet again. Basilio is reminded of his bachelor days. Sometimes he catches himself staring longingly at his wife's door. He forces himself to look out the window instead.

…

Mornings, Basilio goes to Arena Ferox to train. Each week he seems to go a little early, first by a few minutes, then an hour, then two—rumor has it, some days he comes before the crack of dawn. Flavia catches wind of this and decides to see for herself whether it is true. On a Thursday morning, she arrives at the arena before the first cockerel crow. Part of her isn't surprised when Basilio walks in ten minutes after she does. She sits in the stands as he pulls out the training dummies they've made. She winces at the state of them. She hasn't been to the arena in a week or two—the duties of Khan Regnant have kept her stuck in the palace, managing finances and fleets—so she hasn't had a chance to see the damage that only Basilio could have inflicted on them.

She then watches, unnoticed and silent, as Basilio slams the training axe into them over and over. His moves start slowly, normally, but get fiercer with every blow. Frustration pours out of his muscles and into his every attack; the look on his face progressively darkens. His final blow snaps a training dummy in half. He stops, dropping the axe to the ground, and stares at it for a long moment, breathing heavily. Sweat gleams on his forehead.

"Had your fill?" Flavia asks, standing up. She comes down to the arena floor.

He starts. When he registers who it is, he snorts. "Spying on me, Flavia? I can understand your being worried that I'll take the throne back—"

"Please," she scoffs. "You and I both know you have no chance until Lucina grows up. I came to complain that you're breaking my training dummies. I'm expecting you to pay for the damages."

"You're the one with control over the treasure vault, not me," he says, a grin weaseling its way onto his face. "I can assure you, without the vault I'm completely broke."

"What happened to all the money you earned when you used to sneak off on the job?" Flavia asks.

"Who knows?" He shrugs as dramatically as he can. "Most of it probably got spent on mead and weapons. Would've spent the rest of it, too, but Robin had a go at me for it. The lass swore up and down that if I didn't learn how to manage finances, she'd take away all my bottles." He laughed. "And she did! Gave 'em all to Gregor!"

Flavia rolls her eyes, picturing the situation. Of course. "Speaking of Robin—how is she? Get anything yet?"

Basilio's smile fades. "Still nothing," he responds, eventually. "She'll come around."

There's a long pause.

"I'm sorry," Flavia says.

"Don't need your pity, woman," he mutters, quickly.

Flavia hears and anger barrels through her. "You think this is _pity_?" She snarls. "This isn't anywhere near pity, you curr—Robin is my friend, too! Concern, yes, for the both of you, but not pity. We'd both be daft to think that this ordeal hasn't affected you!"

Something in Basilio snaps. "Of course this has affected me!" He roars. "My wife is an empty shell of what she used to be—I go home every day hoping that the lass will be back to her old ways, to find she hasn't taken any steps forward. And what am I supposed to do? I don't drink mead anymore, because it's not as fun without her nagging. Bring her flowers every day, hoping she'll turn around and joke about the time I wanted her to be my toady—and I get nothing. She doesn't even bat a lash! She was—_Robin_ was meant to slay dragons, not fall to them!" Basilio's voice grows hoarse; he goes quiet, runs a hand across the back of his neck. Softly, he says: "Old woman, I don't know what to do anymore. I'm—I'm afraid she won't come back."

Flavia softens. She rests a hand on the hilt of her sword. "Don't worry. We'll figure this out." She smiles dryly. "Ferox be damned if I can't help out an old fool every once in a while."

"Cursing out our kingdom for me? I'm touched," he remarks, quickly back to his old ways. It's the closest Flavia will get to a thanks.

She takes it, barking out a laugh. "You mean _my_ kingdom. Don't get ahead of yourself, oaf."

(They go out drinking that night. He breaks out his old bottles of mead.)

…

Spring arrives. The flowers start blooming again.

…

Robin wakes up in a room unfamiliar to her. It takes her a minute, she's feeling a little woozy, but she begins to take in the architecture of her surroundings. Then it hits her. She's in Ferox. A beat. Ferox? Why Ferox? Robin forces herself up and out of the bed. She takes a step and staggers; she grabs the edge of the desk beside the bed to keep balance. She looks down at her legs and is shocked to find she's lost weight—and not a little, either. She looks up again. That's when the flower catches her eye.

It's the same kind Basilio first gave her when he tried to persuade her to become his tactician, and the same she held at her wedding, and the same he would wave in front of her face when he wanted to apologize, or wanted a favor. Robin reaches out, shakily, to finger the petals. She smiles.

"Only Basilio," she murmurs. It strikes her. "Basilio!"

…

Flavia and Basilio are sparring when one of the castle guards bursts in, panting. Both heads snap up to look at the man, who zooms over to their swords and wheezes out: "It's—she's—"

"Out with it!" Flavia urges.

He draws in a deep breath and bursts: "Lady Robin is gone!"

"_What_?" Both Khans shout.

"The healers went in to check on her this morning and they found the bed empty. We searched the whole house and surrounding area—she's gone!"

Panic sets in. "She can't be gone! She's barely able to talk, let alone run away! Get the guards, set up a search team, and find her!" Flavia snaps. By the time she turns around to look at Basilio, he's already gone. She curses and makes to follow.

…

Basilio's first inclination is to check the house himself. It's not that he doesn't trust the guards, it's just that he married a wily vixen who could easily hide from a bunch of men trained to fight, not play hide and seek. He thinks better of this idea—Robin would have left the house, assuming it was her who left and someone hadn't taken her, and even then they would escape the house. The thought draws a growl from his throat. If someone _had_ taken her, they wouldn't live to see the next sunrise.

His feet take him away from the Feroxi Arena and toward the palace. At the very least, he'll be able to heckle the guards into assembling another search team and point out areas someone might have taken her or she might have gone. (A bitter taste enters his mouth. It's too much to hope that she might be back, too much to fear that she might have been stolen away. The Feroxi don't believe in gods, but Naga help him—)

He storms into the palace's throne room, prepared to shout himself hoarse, and freezes when he sees a flash of royal purple. There's a figure at the foot of the Khan Regnant's throne, wearing Plegian robes. He swallows, hard. The figure rises at his arrival, takes a hesitant step forward into the light. A shine of familiarly coloured hair, the kind he used to run his calloused fingers through, and curious eyes—Robin.

"Basilio!" Is the first word that tumbles out of her mouth, and then: "Grima's gone. Where's Morgan?"

He drops everything, all his thoughts and fears, to pick her up and crush her in his embrace, roaring with joy. She's not entirely sure what brought about his reaction, but when she sees his eyes wet and glazed, she doesn't question it and resolves to squeeze him back.

He doesn't let her go for a long time—not when the guards come in, or when Flavia does and whoops with joy, or even when Lissa and Lon'qu arrive and everyone's pulled into a big, sentimental pile. And Robin—she just smiles through it all, confused, but content to hold her loved ones close.

…

Fear is not the way of the Feroxi, this Basilio knows and lives by. But he would be fool to not admit he was full of it, full of the agonizing terror of losing a loved one that brings even the strongest of men to their knees. So he does, on quiet nights when he resolves to hold his wife close. He whispers out the thoughts that had plagued him for so long, the fears, and she listens with attentive ears and heart.

"Strong is the man who can hold his own in battle," she says softly, when he finishes. "Stronger is the man who can admit he is, or was, afraid. Thank you, for everything, Basilio."

He draws her in for a kiss and feels much lighter when he goes to sleep.


End file.
